


Purity of Desire

by lynndyre



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Menstrual Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 09:20:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1505075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/pseuds/lynndyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which orgasms are good for cramps, and d'Artagnan is good for Constance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purity of Desire

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to whiplash for looking this over!

Constance rocks up into d'Artagnan's thigh, where it rests between her own, and tangles her fingers in his hair. “Nnnnn! D'Artagnan, I can't! I want you, but we can't right now." 

D'Artagnan pulls back, allows her space to breathe, space to feel how much she wants him closer again. "Your husband is away from the city, I thought?"

"Yes, but it’s not- it’s not the right time. Of the month." She watches his brow furrow, as he tries to work out her meaning. Then he blinks, and flushes.

"Oh. Loveplay is not to your taste now?"

"I --" Judging from her body's inclinations, loveplay would be very much to her taste now. "I ache. I couldn't take you inside me. And it's far from appropriate." His eyes are sweet and hopeful, and his head is tilted, curious, with none of the disgust her husband felt. "But I do want you."

Victory is a good look on him, and it makes her grin, even as he kisses her. At his touch, her cunny aches with want, not merely pain, and the blood comes faster, as if chased from her body by other fluids. His arms catch her waist, hers fall to his hips, and draw him closer still. They move together, gentle frottage inflaming them both, washing away the fatigue from all of Constance’s nerves and igniting them with desire. 

The rags between her legs press back against her mound, a teasing, diffuse pressure, warm from her own body. His fingers, under her skirts, under the rags, are cool by comparison, a jolt of sudden, more direct sensation. They warm quickly, and she squeezes her thighs around his hand, breathing hard.

"Good?"

"Keep going!" She swats at his shoulder - he looks far too smug. But --oh! Perhaps he deserves to. She moans, and he kisses it from her mouth. The feelings his touch evokes are more intense- whether made so by pain or by bleeding, and her peak is coming faster than she's ever known. 

When she comes, she feels it deep inside her body, a gratifying ache, shuddering and intense. Her legs shake, and d’Artagnan withdraws his hand gently, lowers her down from her half-perch on the countertop. She lets her head rest on his shoulder, suddenly exhausted, all her body filled with soft, pleasant echoes. Her cunny tightens again, in an aftershock of joy, and she clutches at d’Artagnan’s shirt.

“Constance?”

She nods into his chest, and doesn’t let go. She’s not sure she has the energy to stand on her own, but she doesn’t care.

“So good. Just tired.”

He laughs into her hair. 

“Maybe a nap? One little death doesn’t usually take so much out of you.” 

“I should clean up. Oh!” She starts upright, worried, but though his fingers are red, he’s kept them carefully away from both their clothes. She pulls away, to find a cloth to clean them. “It doesn’t bother you?”

He shakes his head, still watching her like she’s something fascinating, something wonderful, not unclean or weak or disgusting or anything else. Just loved.

“A nap sounds very nice, then. If you’d like to join me.”


End file.
